


silhouette and nothing more

by orphan_account



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: I Can't Believe I Wrote This, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-29
Updated: 2013-03-29
Packaged: 2017-12-06 22:23:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/740815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for a prompt on the Les Mis kink meme: "Grown-up Gavroche/Montparnasse. Consensual and canon-era, please, and would appreciate bookverse Gav's massive confidence and basic assumption that he's equal to everyone. Knifeplay a bonus." [<a href="http://makinghugospin.livejournal.com/13024.html?thread=5473504#t5473504">x</a>]</p>
            </blockquote>





	silhouette and nothing more

**Author's Note:**

> tw: minor knifeplay and potential underage (gavroche is 17; montparnasse is 24)

Gavroche grows up fast.

The barricade ages him, of course; he is all of twelve years old and suddenly no stranger to blood and to sacrifice, to the corpses of his friends and his enemies. He is left alone and frightened (although he would not admit it) and unwelcome in a Paris that is no longer his own.

For the first time, he is scared.

He retreats to his Elephant, the one constant; and there he stays, at least until Montparnasse comes knocking. He wears a wig and a long coat of velvet – another of his characters, no doubt – and stares down at Gavroche with lip curled. “Did you not say you were a man? Don’t cry.”

Gavroche dries his eyes on Montparnasse’s coat, in petty vengeance, and helps him later that night to rob a rich man of his silver.

The man, he tells himself, didn’t need it anyway.

 

And so, he grows: Gavroche spends the next two or three years in ill-fitting limbs, unused to his newfound height, and is a poor pickpocket for the period. His trousers flap about his ankles and his shirtsleeves halt halfway to his wrists, and he shivers through winter in this lanky body.

When he finds he can’t quite fit through the gap in the elephant anymore, he goes to Montparnasse.

“Your beast has rejected you!” Montparnasse cries, with mirth. “No matter, we shall find you useful.”

Gavroche turns up his nose in his impression of the rich, and says with great affront, “No, monsieur, it was I that rejected it. And quite on the contrary, I shall find you useful.”

Both are true in the months that follow: he may no longer be small enough to slip through the beast’s forelegs, but he is still quite skinny enough to shin up guttering and to sneak through windows. Montparnasse is good for a sou when Gavroche cannot afford bread and good for a hat should Gavroche require costume.

 

Gavroche’s seventeenth summer brings with it charm and rids itself of shame. Under the hot sun he flirts with the blushing bourgeois girls in the cabriolets, dirtied elbows propped up on the gilded windows, until their fathers come to chase him away. Often he is able to take some trinket, some hairpin or brooch which Montparnasse (now twenty-four, with twice as much blood on his hands) admires and gifts to a ladyfriend or two of his.

“How charming you are, my dear Gavroche,” Montparnasse remarks, spinning in his fingers a fine golden brooch. “You seem quite the man of the town now.”

“Far more than you,” Gavroche says. “Why, some days my rooms might be mistaken for the Notre Dame, with such crowds.”

“Have you no shame?” But Montparnasse laughs and retreats into the night, taking with him the brooch.

 

Montparnasse takes Paris, with a flick of his knife and a spill of blood; but Gavroche _owns_ Paris, with a smile plying upon his lips and a song on his breath.

But with one another they are equals, and together they might take France. For now they take one another.

 

It is a cool spring evening, and the pair are out seeking what may be deemed a wage or a victim.

“How empty the Rue du Bac seems without its porch,” comments Gavroche quite idly; he had grown quite tired of keeping watch and has pressed himself against the wall of a lodging. “How drab. Really, we might’ve picked a more interesting street for our work.”

“And you might be quiet,” Montparnasse replies. He is wearing a most peculiar assortment, a tall hat and stiff jacket, heavy boots. It is not clear what he is masquerading as.

“Montparnasse, that look is most unbecoming, you might be told,” Gavroche says, amusement evident in his impetuous tone. It is maddening enough to the other man that soon Gavroche is pressed to the wall by a strong, slender arm.

“Quiet,” hisses Montparnasse, and Gavroche’s wicked grin glints bright as the blade against his neck.

“Monsieur, I am no more afraid of you than the baker woman who scolds me for stealing her loaves,” he says, voice coloured with delight; and he hums most pleasedly when Montparnasse kisses his open mouth.

“You are insufferable,” is spoken against his lips, and the knife tip speaks scarlet on his skin, but neither is deep enough to hurt.

This is how they work, with quip and with insult and with blade, conversations punctuated with kiss or with cut. Pleasure in the most unlikely of places, in darkened streets where they mightn’t be seen and rooms not their own. Yes, it is a most peculiar arrangement, but it keeps the grin upon Gavroche’s face and the slight smile upon Montparnasse’s, and what more might be asked?

“Would you have me any other way?” inquires Gavroche, in panted breath, and receives an answer in the form of Montparnasse’s hands and tongue.

The blade cuts thin scars along his left collarbone as Montparnasse kisses bruises along the right, sharp and soft. Gavroche arches into both touches, soft sounds escaping his lips.

Montparnasse goes readily upwards when Gavroche curls a hand into his hair, knocking askew his hat, and pulls him for a kiss. Their lips meet, Montparnasse’s tongue parting his, and the cold flat of the blade is pressed to his wound; the contrast has Gavroche gasping against the other’s mouth, grip in the dark hair tightening and tugging.

There is an interval in which Montparnasse tips down his head once again to kiss along the cuts, bleeding freely, and when he returns his mouth is reddened not only by Gavroche’s own but also by his blood.

“You demon,” Gavroche says, accusingly, but he accepts once again Montparnasse’s offer of a kiss. It is warm and wet and most wonderfully filthy.

Suddenly there is the sound of fabric ripping. It takes only the slightest slip of the knife to cut through Gavroche’s trouser front, that Montparnasse might touch him; Gavroche smiles against the curve of Montparnasse’s neck and says, “I would complain were they not a pair of yours.”

It is no accident that the blade nicks his hip.

Rough hands skim lightly up Gavroche’s thighs, and there is a quiet clatter as the knife is allowed to fall to the gutter. One hand curls around his hard cock, the other around his hip to press into the small wound there. Both sensations are _too much_ , and Gavroche bites at Montparnasse’s lip to prevent himself from crying out.

The hand stroking him is too dry perhaps, slickened only by the blood that ran down Montparnasse’s knife to drip into his palm and the precome from the head of his cock. But Gavroche cannot really care, not when Montparnasse is curling his long fingers just so and licking into his mouth, swallowing each groan.

He rocks his hips just slightly, fucking Montparnasse’s fist, and the grip on his hip tightens, sharp fingernail pressing into the cut.

But the strokes become faster and laden with intent, Montparnasse thumbing across the head of his cock and twisting his wrist. Each movement extracts from Gavroche a stifled moan or a hitched breath, and evidently the sight has aroused Montparnasse too for he is straining against his ridiculous trousers.

And they are a sight: blood smeared across Montparnasse’s knuckles and painting their lips, dripping onto Gavroche’s collar and running over the jut of his hip. The pain is but mild, masked by the pleasure; and it is with a sigh that he spills across Montparnasse’s hand, teeth scraping against Montparnasse’s neck.

“I would be remiss not to return the favour, of course,” Gavroche says, after a few moments, and drops to his knees.

 

Later that night there is a man mugged in the Rue de Bac, and he tells the police that his money was confiscated by a most curious pair: an oversized, handsome urchin and a dark-haired dandy, both in a state of significant disarray.

They are not arrested.


End file.
